"Velly well," replies the boy.... "Vere was once a Daddy and a
hobberell gweat Thnake always bovvered him and followed him about and
wouldn't let him gone to thleep and made him be ill like he had eaten
too much sweets, and the doctor came and gave him lotths of meddisnin.
Then he had to wun away from the Thnake, but it wunned after him, and
it wath jutht going to kill him when Mummy bwoughted the Thword and
Daddy killed the Thnake all dead. And I am going to have the Thword
when I gwow up, but vere aren't any more bad Thnakes. They is all good
now and Daddy likes vem and I likes vem. Amen."

"_I_ never said _Amen_, when I told you the story, Sonny," remarks the
lady.

"Well you can, now I have tolded you it," permits her son. "It means
_bus_[32]--all finished. Mitthis Beaton thaid tho. And when I am as
big as Daddy I'm going to be the Generwal of the Queenth Gweyth and
thay '_Charge!_' and wear the Thword."

Lucille de Warrenne here smothers conversation in the manner common to
worshipping mothers whose prodigies make remarks indicative of
marvellous precocity, in fact absolutely unique intelligence.




EPILOGUE.

Is it well, O my Soul, is it well?

In silent aisles of sombre tone